


Starlight and the Storm

by galaxy_warping



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Violence, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Epic Battles, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I hope, Injury, Logan is autistic, M/M, Magic, Misunderstandings, Past Child Abuse, Prophecy, Roman is hot, Sharing a Bed, Slow To Update, Snow, Swordfighting, Thunderstorms, Villain Deceit Sanders, Virgil is sad, patton is a sweetheart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:23:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxy_warping/pseuds/galaxy_warping
Summary: Roman has everything he could want and more home than he knows what to do with while Virgil, even with his newfound immortality and newly given name, doesn't have a place on Earth or in the Astral Plane with his fellow gods. In their world of Celtic mythology, magic, and prophecy, the two have to find their place in the future either as rivals or as something entirely new.(and, as always, Logan and Patton are lovely and very, very married)





	1. Wills and Waves

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea how long/short this is gonna be, but right now it's looking like it's gonna be a long one! It might take a while to post because I'm in school right now but I'll try to be consistent. This was originally inspired by Moana but it went in such a weird original direction that I don't think it's fair to say so anymore haha so yeah here's my first fic I hope you enjoy! (Also, I'd like to thank everyone in the KHS discord server for cheering me on and keeping me motivated to work on this project! love you guys!)

The ocean was in a frenzy, whipping itself against the limestone boulders lining the small cove. Cold waves shooks and lashed in bursts of erratic energy, rearing against the prevailing winter wind roaring off of the land, pushing sheets of sea spray off of the crests like sweat off of the mane of a feral horse bucking against its reigns. No corner of the secluded beach was still or silent, filled instead with the incessant sounds of mother earth shifting under her bounds of water and sand.

Roman was in awe at the display, thrilled by the war between air, sea, and land. His breath came fast in his chest as if his lungs wished to roar and pulse like the ocean before him, stinging as the filled with the frosted air whipping around him. His dampened, reddish hair moved in sprays with the wind, fanning out like the mist off of the waves. Grin manic and hands clenched, his soul yelled out to match the snarling sea, a trade between harmony and battle where the ocean’s wild and inhuman shriek beat him at every turn, but for once he was only spurred on by the defeat. 

To an outsider, they would not see a roaring lion or powerful soul, but the charming chief’s son known as much for his recklessness and curiosity as his rampant foolishness, often pointed out by his father. His hair was wild with or without the whipping wind, standing usually in swooping waves uncontrolled by any combing, often obscuring green eyes that flashed with passion. Tan, freckled skin spoke of his frequent adventures to the ocean or into the nearby mountains in tandem with unobtrusive musculature that carried him through the most difficult climbs or most taxing journeys that he could reach at the allowance of his fathers. Every inch of him spoke of boundless charm and energy that had won over everyone in the small tribe.

The young man in question was at the cove for a reason, he was sure, but as always the stormy scene stole every thought from his head and plan from his memory. He shivered suddenly in the early winter chill as if he was waking from a dream.

Slowly shaking himself from his momentary reverie, Roman walked carefully on the stony shore towards the opposite cliff closing off the beach. His task was simple, as usual, collect the iridescent mussels that lived against the rough boulders where the life-giving tide could reach them and bring them back for his father. Logan was a simple man that asked for very little and did not find the same wild beauty of landscapes and oceanic power as intoxicating as his son or husband. However, Roman was privy of Logan’s singular vanity; the shining shells of common mussels that seemed to glow when the light hit them, throwing off hundreds of indescribable colors and edged by deep, hidden blues inside of the blackened and gnarled exteriors of the humble creatures. 

It was his father’s birthday, after all, and one of the two paramount chiefs of the tribe would receive nothing less than the best. Roman made his way back up the narrow trail winding up the cliff face, carrying hopes for the upcoming celebration and a load of the largest, most stubborn mussels that he could manage to pry off of the rocks. Despite his happy and hopeful thoughts, he took one last, wistful glance at the energetic sea as it creaked at him, as if imploring him to stay a little longer by its side. He nearly turned back, like a hapless sailor to a siren’s call, but instead he sighed with resignation and turned back to the trail, promising inwardly that he would return soon to once again challenge the roaring spirit he knew so well, ready to be taken in once more by a power and passion that overpowered his own.

Little did the retreating man know, the ocean stared back.

The little god was not a fool. He knew that his infatuation with the chief’s son would pass with time. That was what his uncle had said, anyways, but the fire he felt from the man he gazed at through the distorting ocean water was intoxicating. Virgil pulled at the hood of his cloak over his head and drew its long train tightly over his waifish form, slowly sinking lower under the brackish water to think. He desperately tried to pull his thoughts from his esteemed visitor, the man who looked at the god’s stormy ocean with a passion unlike any of the frightened or disillusioned glares of fisherman and children who wished to swim. The storm grew even more powerful above him, warring with itself on a battlefield of stone and salted air.

“Lyrr!”

The hostile call boomed across the astral plane, a skull-shattering noise that would scare any of the bravest celtic warriors out of their warpaint. Virgil simply groaned, willing himself back into the house of the gods.

The throne room was more than massive, each hallway and apse floating high above the possible heights of mortal architecture. The gaping cavern of the temple couldn't be completely viewed, banks of thick fog obscuring the far edges as they rolled across the expanse of intricate tile and mosaic that composed the floor. Virgil grimaced, disliking the dull-sharp edges of the tiny pieces of blue-green glass as the dug into his feet, not taking even a glance at the masterful scene that they helped create. The throne room had been dedicated to the young god's memory long ago, a result of avoiding eye contact or generally not paying attention during their “family meetings". Each mosaic carefully represented a different part of the cyclical history/prophecy that the world followed, each scene repeated over and over again as the mother earth waltzed through her path in the stars.

Virgil kept his eyes down to keep his face hidden from his uncle's glare.

“You cannot keep doing this, Lyrr. It is unacceptable for you to leave your throne. I taught you better than this!”

“I'm sorry, Balor.”

The man simply scowled down at his charge. How dare he disobey him after years of teaching and instruction? He sighed and leaned into the hazy light leaking through one of the open collunades. The overcast sky revealed a horrific face, one befitting the feared Balor, god of violence, and the singular, yellow eye that inhabited it. He blinked at the younger god in disdain.

“You are _weak_ , I would have hoped that the Earth Mother could choose a _worthy vessel for a god_ ,” the oozing, sick quality of Balor’s voice chilled Virgil, making him flinch against the spat words like they were acid that the taller man had thrown. “ _If you cannot take up the throne of Lyrr then-_ "

Virgil hissed, looking up for the first time since he had manifested in the throne room. “ **That is not my name.** ” 

If Balor’s words were acid, Virgil's were thunderclaps. They echoed through every ounce of misty air in sight, shaking the enthroned god in his cloak. Within an instant, the singular eye glowing back at him widened and narrowed incrementally, filling with anger, hatred, and thinly veiled fear. The acidic voice went quiet, threatening like sudden silence in a forest when before there were crickets.

“You _will_ go by the name given to you, _Lyrr_.” The younger god opened his mouth in anger, but his voice died in his throat, constricted by the glow of the eye, still observing him coldly from the shadows. His mouth snapped shut against his will, teeth clicking together uncomfortably, and the god was sent to his knees, eyes back on the floor. “That's what I thought. You are weak, aren't you, Virgil?” The name was spat in malice. “ _the only reason I keep you here is because you are useful to me_. You _will_ follow my orders and _you will not speak against me ever again_ , do you hear me?” 

Lyrr nodded mutely, too tired to stand up for himself or simply to get to his feet. 

It was going to be a long eternity.


	2. Son of the Chief(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow two chapters in one day I'll definitely be able to keep this schedule up.

The trail back to the village wasn’t very long, only about a mile and a half that Roman had had memorized since childhood. The soft gravel and sand of the coast transitioned into the standard clay and silt of the inlet. Short, stubborn grasses tufted out on either side of the path with companions of limestone pebbles smoothed over by millions of years by the coast. Roman’s feet skimmed carelessly over the small stones and dust of the well-worn trail as he carefully counted and inspected each of the mussels he had collected for his father. The man whistled animatedly, occasionally skipping his steps in obvious excitement to be homeward bound.

Sounds of the village invaded the quiet melody of his voice, filling the silence with soft noises of celebration and general business. It was in preparation for the end-of-summer festival, Roman reminded himself after a brief moment of confusion at the noise. After all, it was still early in the morning. Barely a soul had stood witness to his departure at sunrise as he slipped off to court the roaring ocean once again. Each quickened step led him closer to the excitement of his tribe, thrumming around him and filling his soul once more with passionate joy. 

“Logan is going to be furious, you know.” Roman nearly tripped in surprise at the cheerful voice, spinning to face the other man. Patton was as cunning in parental instinct as his husband was in, well, everything else. His smile curled upward at one side, obviously amused by his son’s actions.

“S-sorry, dad, I wanted to get-” 

Patton waved Roman off, giggling sightly at Roman’s nervousness. “I’m joking, kiddo, I’m sure he’ll be happy with whatever you found!” Roman grinned in return, feeling his nervousness melt away. Patton was naturally comforting, all soft edges and kindness. His hair curled more than Roman’s did, his freckles standing out a bit more. Rounded cheeks and smiling eyes lent even more familiarity to his appearance, allowing him to be the perfect diplomat across the tribe. No one was spared from his care and lightly teasing ‘dad-voice’ as Roman called it, not even his own husband. It was no wonder to anyone in the village that Logan had fallen so easily for him when they were younger, the older members of the tribe still laughing at the poor man for how he helplessly blushed and stuttered around Patton before they were married (and after as well, for that matter).

His energetic father was short, shorter even than Roman despite the two decades he had on his son. He made up for it in his build with broad shoulders and strength that surpassed almost anyone in the tribe. The hard-earned strength had been gained throughout his childhood due to his crossed eyes making it difficult for Patton to do any job other than farming even as his brothers and sisters went on to learn how to hunt and various other more glamorous pursuits. The soft brown eyes in question were framed in millions of freckles of various sizes and transparencies that traveled across his face and down to his neck and shoulders. Some of the more daring spots traveled across his hairline, mixing with the light brown curls surrounding Patton's head like a rolling blond cloud.

Roman’s thoughts were interrupted as his dad broke the silence, suddenly reanimating and bouncing on the balls of his feet. He grabbed his son’s arm and tugged him through the crowd that flowed through the center of the small village, snaking towards the simple hut that the Chief family lived in.

On their way through the village center, Roman was once again enthralled by the festivities. People smiled and made way for them, recognizing Patton and Roman, occasionally greeting them as they passed. Every heart and soul was dedicated to the preparations, it seemed. Every household had its doors open, laughter and cheerful conversation filtering through the crowd and mixing into an unintelligible mess of happy noise. The end-of-summer celebration was one of the most important of the year, of course, and it called for the biggest feast that the tribe could muster. Roman, for a moment, gained the nearly incandescent excitement of his dad as they made their way down the street. His feet became light but the mussels in his bag clinked, sobering Roman and reminding him of his father.

His dad was right, his father was probably less than pleased.

Logan was getting antsy. Left alone in the house with too little to do and without the distraction of his husband and son, the chief quickly went stir crazy but was still unwilling to join the crowd in the village center. Instead, he waited impatiently for his family’s return. The nervous man stood imposingly at the door, sharp blue eyes trained like twin arrows on the dirt path leading to their home.

After a long moment, he sighed and turned away from the empty road, running long fingers through his dark brown hair. Logan tended to scare people when he wasn't with his charming son or kind-eyed husband. Everything about him seemed to have a sharp edge, from his cutting words to his strict posture, but anyone who had spent more than a few minutes around him felt the same care and protectiveness for the man that had won Patton’s heart all those years ago.

At his core, Logan had a nervous character, fidgeting and pacing when things didn't go as planned. To his embarrassment, his softer or, in his own opinion, weaker traits were what drew people to him and made them feel safer. He truly was like a father to the tribe, even while not the oldest or even most respected member of the village people. Logan was a tall, relatively thin man, a sharp contrast to his stocky husband, with pale skin and the dark hair. In the rare sunlight that fell on the village, the red tones of the usual dark would light up like a reluctant torch, making Patton giggle at him and his ever-amused son laugh and tease.

Logan smiled at the memory, he truly loved his family more than anything. It reawakened the nervous energy that fluttered in him every second that Patton and Roman were absent. 

Luckily for him, the excited voice of his husband faded into the airspace of the hut. 

“-and we’re going to have games for the kids this year so that everyone can have a bunch of fun during the festival! Everyone’s already started cooking and baking for the party and it’s going to be so great...Oh, hi sweetheart! I found Roman!” Patton was nearly dragging their son in his excitement and grinning broadly, crinkling his warm, brown eyes at Logan when he saw him. Logan’s frown wavered. Patton’s charm took the edge off of his husband’s frustration, coaxing a tiny smile onto his face. 

No matter how charmed he was, a certain 19-year-old had some explaining to do. “Where did you go so early in the morning, Roman?”

“Logan-”

“No, Patton, he has to learn some responsibility. Running off like this constantly is not conducive to leadership.” The chief shifted his attention back to his son. “Where were you?”

Roman straightened his spine, meeting his father’s eyes. “The cove.” Logan tisked, already rearing up to scold him. Roman took a step back, raising his hands defensively, “Wait, hear me out! It was important, I wasn’t just running away.” 

After hesitating for a second waiting for his father’s response, the boy uncovered the small bag he had tied around his waist, revealing the 23 mussel shells he had carefully collected that morning. Immediately, Logan’s strict blue eyes softened. Logan was never angry for very long, always having a soft spot for his son's eager nature despite its obvious and sometimes dangerous outcomes. Without his consent, his own smile matched the sunshine emanating from his husband's across the room. He was uncontainably pleased at the simple gift.

“Thank you, Roman. Your efforts are...most appreciated.” Roman’s eyes cleared of nervousness and immediately his features shifted into a glowing, prideful expression as he took in his father's words. 

They were a strange family and had been for a long time. Logan and Patton had been married at a young age, each deliriously happy with his choice, but the greatest test of their partnership had come in the form of a child, Roman. The origins of the child were a mystery to most of the village and a topic of gossip for much of the boy's early childhood, but he ultimately won the heart of the tribe through his infectious charm and enthusiasm, reminding people of his parents’ union in human form.

Despite the occasional hiccup or danger and with Roman in their care, Logan and Patton became the paramount chiefs of the village. Their mixture of soft and sharp, kind and factual, strong and compromising lent to them being the most effective leaders the tribe had seen in nearly 200 years.


	3. Throne Room Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse my blatant misuse of celtic mythology, I'm using my... *looks at smudged writing on hand* artisanal lesson! Big thanks to my good friendo Freya (@ravenclawunicorn1 on tumblr) for editing away all of my mistakes!

The sun rose on the Irish coast along the western side of the island, so far yet to be conquered by invaders from the Mediterranean, where the tribal society had existed for what felt like an eternity. The Earth Mother watched over the various villages carefully as time passed by like tides on the rocky sands of the cove. 

Balor watched that same tide, but with disdain and cunning instead of the Earth’s general apathy and occasional care. From his tall throne, the imposing cyclops sneered down at the conjured vision of the Earth that he observed. He waved a scaled hand carelessly, dissipating the illusory fog in a single motion. As the cloud fell apart and fled to the corners of the throne room, Balor turned his attention to the tiled, colorful floor at the foot of his throne. For a moment, he steepled his fingers under his nose and took in the circular prophecy laid into the intricate flooring. 

The mosaics displayed a sequence of events that were burned into all of the gods’ memories. Each motif stood in a circle on the floor, starting with the one at Balor’s feet. It was a simple depiction, showing a glowing child floating down onto a green and blue facsimile of the Earth guided by the hands of the gods of light. Balor sneered at it for a second, his yellow, rotten eye narrowing at the golden-stained glass that formed the mosaic, ringed by white and sky blue tiles of the swirling clouds. His eye focused on the figure of the baby and his frown deepened.

He refocused on the throne room and glanced at the thrones to his left and right. There were an even number on each side, placing the god of war at the head of the room in the tallest throne. It was a snarled and blackened throne, curling up towards the ceiling like a charred tree stump. To his immediate right was an overly wide throne that was shared by the goddesses Don and Druantia who, in tandem, ruled over magic and wildlife in the Astral Plane, holding great power over the underworld. Their throne seemed to be built of twining vines over limestone blocks, each swath of exposed stone etched with runes and symbols representing the moon and various dryads on the Earth. To the left stood a much simpler and less naturalistic throne belonging to the ruthless god Camalus, matching Balor himself in violence but only contesting the moss on the throne room’s floor in a battle of wits. Around the room, the semicircle was completed by often empty thrones of the various gods that preferred the vibrancy of the Earth over the quieter, eternal Astral Plane. Among them were the thrones of Cernunnos, the god of the wilderness, Diancecht, in charge of medicine and healing, and, to Balor’s irritation, the ever-absent Lyrr. 

Balor’s face melted into an expression of disgust once more, casting his good eye onto the throne, which looked as if it was built out of a frozen wave twisting and flowing under the force of a storm. Under the film of ice on the throne were the dim visages of skulls frozen below the surface, caught under the tide of the wave like so many leaves in a storm. The throne was befitting of the god of death and of the sea, but there was no god present to befit it.

“Can you really blame the boy for not wanting to be here? The glare you are giving his residency could destroy a village” A soft voice spoke from the war god’s right side. Don had been sitting quietly in her shared throne for quite some time, simply observing the happenings of the underworld in her mind’s eye as Druantia slept with her head in the other goddess’s lap. In terms of appearance, the two goddesses could not look or act more like opposites. Don turned her multicolored eyes back to her wife, pale skin glowing in the half-light of the overcast sky. Instead of the standard hair of mortals, Don had a head of flowering vines that drifted over her shoulders like water, blooming in various colors and species depending on her thoughts and feelings. Currently, with her slender arms resting over her fellow goddess and chromatically shifting eyes on Druantia’s face, the vines were subdued in tones of white and pink, growing clover flowers and violets in calming waves. 

Balor’s face softened minutely to keep from startling the nature goddess, responding to her question with the least anger that he could manage. “He must take his place, Don, it is his responsibility to the underworld.”

“We all protested our roles when we arrived here, didn’t we? It took me almost a hundred years to grow comfortable in this place.”

“I don’t know what you're talking about.” Balor was the oldest of the gods, not having been replaced during the cycle of years as the others had been. The little god Lyrr was their newest addition.

“It doesn’t make sense, brother, you were never this harsh on any of us when we came to being. Why do you treat him this way?” Don didn’t wait for Balor’s answer, distracted instead by the shifting of the goddess in her lap. 

Druantia slowly awoke at the sound of her beloved talking, sitting up next to Don on their throne. “Why do you speak, Don? I had finally fallen asleep!” The deep voice complimented Don’s higher pitched giggle as Druantia rested her head amid the vines, breathing deeply. The recently awoken goddess was the simplicity to her counterpart’s intricacies with dark brown hair that curled into tight spirals around her head and neck. Her skin was dark with a golden dust over her cheekbones and collarbone, framing distinct golden eyes like the shining quality of the dying sun on the surface of a calm ocean. Her voice rolled and growled like the groundwater under the greenest meadows and most sprawling forests.

Druantia was not related to the other gods, but was once a dryad on Earth. She was in charge of the changing of the seasons into the colder months, putting the first frost on the leaves and turning the coats of the animals white to match the snow. Where she sat next to Don, she looked more like the spirit of fall with her warm tones and golden eyes, but come the end-of-summer festival her hair became dusted with blues and silvers of the coming winter. After a long rivalry with the cold months as the goddess of spring, Don had finally fallen in love with the dryad and, when the love was returned, chose to bring her back to the underworld, immortalizing her to stand at her side for the next few millennia. With the cold incoming, Druantia became more and more drowsy, preparing for hibernation similarly to the animals she watched over. In the present, she simply nudged further into her lover’s hair and general warmth, nearly falling back to sleep.

Don laughed slightly, fishing her drowsy counterpart out from her hideaway in the flowers of her hair, now blooming with daisies and miniature yellow roses. “Wake up, my love, my brother is brooding again.”

“Balor, really, leave our little nephew alone. The boy will learn his place one day and you know it,” her voice was full of amusement at her brother-in-law’s dramatics. 

“He’s only a child! You cannot seriously expect him to be everything that we are now, after nearly a thousand years of this life!” Don dutifully finished her partner’s point. Neither of them supported his treatment of the boy and stopped him when they could. In response, Balor just smiled secretively, none of the other gods knew the extent of his coaching of the younger god. He kept the yelling and, to put it lightly, his more liberal approaches to education in isolation from his brothers and sisters. Lyrr’s predecessor, who they all simply referred to as the little god’s ‘father’, was the true ocean god, Dylan, who had faded out like many gods tend to do after several millennia of existence, and had gone back to the mortal coil to live forever as one of his sacred symbols, a silver fish. Balor turned his eyes back to the prophetic mosaics, sensing the end of his and the goddesses’ exchange. 

Balor glanced once more at Lyrr’s absence, closing his single yellow eye for a moment. He used his power to cast out his view in order to find the smaller god, tracking him across the astral plane. Within a few seconds, Balor found him, seated on the outskirts of the underworld and curled into his cloak like a lost puppy, eyes forlorn and feet bare. Balor huffed in irritation, about to will himself to the boy but before he could, Lyrr dissipated into smoke. 

“He went back to Earth again, didn't he?” Don asked lightly, not wanting to incite rage in her temperamental brother. All of the gods in the underworld knew of his anger. The god did not answer in favor of phasing out of the Astral Plane to follow the younger god, leaving behind nothing but sulphuric yellow smoke curling and spilling down his throne in a thick cloud and the scent of warfare in the air.


	4. Wave Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has blood and violence, please be warned by lovelies!

Something was wrong in the immortal realm. Virgil had a talent in knowing when things were wrong and he shivered under the weight of miasma pressing down on the astral plane. He drew his cloak around him, trying to maintain some semblance of warmth in the permanent winter air of the afterlife. The cloak was long, billowing out into black storm clouds at the hem, making miniature banks of smoke drift to the grey-blue grass from his perch on top of the ruined limestone blocks surrounding the hulking structure of the throne room.

Balor was angry at him, again, which caused Virgil flee, again, into the pedestrian shell of the astral plane. The world of spirits was in ruins; hulking blocks of limestone and granite 

The small god sighed deeply as unhappy spirits floated aimlessly under his dangling feet. They were blank creatures, only shadows of their former selves. Virgil knew that they had been people once as their glowing blue-white forms came in and out of focus like the intangible strangers that exist in dreams. Their vague faces showed no emotions except for the occasional bout of confusion or anger as they drifted into each other or forgot which direction they were going. The expanse of semi-corporeal grassland was swimming with them, each on their own winding path through the ruins that Virgil perched on top of.

Virgil wasn’t stupid, he knew that he had to go back to the throne room to face Balor, but for the moment he was marginally content to just sit and watch the translucent crowd drift past. The mutinous thoughts still bubbled up in his silence, though, filling him with a flash of hatred for his fate. 

In his mortal life, Virgil had been unhappy, but at least he had had a choice in his place. As a child, the boy was cursed. He was marked as cursed by the off-color birthmarks twinning up his arms and across parts of his face that he hid with long, dark bangs even back then. From his birth he was on the defense until-

He gasped out of his thoughts, unwilling to dive deeper into his painful past. Almost on reflex, he dissipated into the black smoke of his cloak and opened his eyes on a familiar scene.

From his end, the cove was just as beautiful as the man he often found standing on it. Amid the dirty grey cliffs that met the ocean, the cove gave welcome relief from the harsh landscape with a small stretch of rocky sands where the waves could break as they should; slowly and with purpose. Virgil loved the beach, loved ramping up the storms or calming them down depending on his mood, reasserting his power and control despite the submission he had to give every time he returned to the dark throne room. To the little god’s disappointment, his occasional companion that came in from the grasslands of the inlet was absent. Over the past few years, he had grown used to their battle of wits, Virgil showing off the power of his storms and the other man showing his resilience by standing up to them. 

Virgil curled up just under the surface, incorporeal enough to allow the cold water to flow through him rather than obstructing its movement. He sat and awaited his companion’s return.

Within an hour or two of just floating, allowing the waves to crash over him, the little god felt the water shift behind him. He turned, expecting a late-season whale or seal but instead coming face to face with the yellow eyed man he ran from.

He reared back defensively, shocked by the sheer discord of seeing Balor in the only setting Virgil had to calm himself. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Well, Lyrr, because you can't seem to find your way back to the astral plane, I followed you instead. I must say, my opinion of your taste in setting is at an all-time low.” The cyclops God looked disgusted by the shallow sea and the cove, turning almost entirely incorporeal to keep the water from touching him. His presence seemed to poison the water itself and deterred the small herring and fish larvae from passing through the few square feet of water that he obstructed. Many of the tiny animals fled and hid behind the younger god, sensing the danger Balor presented. “It's time to come home, Lyrr.” 

Virgil nearly hissed at the name, shying away from his counterpart’s outstretched hand. “Leave me alone, Balor. I don't want to go back, I like it here.” 

At his words, the thin veil of apathy vacated the cyclops’ face. His features erupted with fury and before the boy could react, the God of war drew his sword and struck him across the chest.

The flat edge of the blow sent Virgil rocketing backwards, pain lancing across his ribcage and down his spine. The gathered fish flickered and fled from the ribbon of golden ichor trailing behind his body where the sword had pierced his skin. For a moment, he floated, collecting his mind slowly. Distantly, he could hear Balor's chilling laughter echo eerily through the water, leaving the small god to drift in the frozen ocean as the cyclops faded back into the astral plane.

Roman was walking slowly along the short path to the shore, feet catching on every stone and mound of sand along the way. His downcast eyes were distant and distracted by his thoughts. It was a few days before the end-of-summer festival and his father was getting irritated to say the least. 

As the boy aged, his disagreements with Logan became more and more passionate. They shared a certain stubbornness and inability to compromise that forced their arguments to spiral into spiteful confrontations, leaving both Logan and his son hurt and his husband grasping at straws to get their family to reunite. 

This time, Roman had forgotten to go out and help the other villagers set up tents for the upcoming feast and Logan had gotten furious, taking out his stress on his son until he had left the house to seek comfort in the only place he knew to.

As soon as Roman's unguided feet met the course sand of the cove, all of the excess anger and hurt from the argument drained out of his body. The ocean often had that effect on him with its sublime and seemingly endless power, but today it felt more like his mind was being smothered instead of smoothed. Everything was blunt and numb. Something about the atmosphere made him pause, the air smelling metallic and charged with ozone. He almost felt like he was going to be struck by lightning in the next moment, the tension was so thick. Roman drew his bottom lip between his teeth minutely, scanning the sand for the anomalous energy thrumming like a bassline through his psyche.

All at once, the feeling dissipated, leaving Roman so quickly that he staggered, only narrowly getting his feet back under himself, counterbalancing haphazardly against the rocky sand. It felt like a physical weight was lifted off of the beach and Roman could breathe again in the eerily silent cove.

It still wasn’t the most comfortable atmosphere, though, as if the oceans as holding its breath before the next big storm. Roman stepping forward, nervously investigating the beach to try and dispel the remaining tension in the cove. As he advanced further, nearly to the middle of the protected coastline, he turned slightly towards the ocean itself.

Immediately, his eyes caught on an unfamiliar form disrupting the waves. Roman had been coming to the same beach for 19 years, new rocks just didn’t appear out of nowhere! As he got closer, the slight fog gave way and revealed the body of a man laid out in the break of the waves.


	5. A Bloody Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesterday was closing night for the play I was in so I finally have time to write again!!! Sorry for the wait! Trigger warning: this one has graphic descriptions of blood and injuries, please be safe!

Roman could barely keep his feet on the trail back to the village. He was running; no thought given to the rocks and pebbles or the grass between them. From the moment he had seen the young stranger under the crashing waves.

The boy was dressed simply, only in a tunic tied around the waist with a cord. He was utterly drenched in the seawater, chest rising only slightly against the rough cloth. Roman felt near physical pain as he picked up the stranger at how light he was, nearly every bone pressed flush against the skin. His dark hair dampened Roman’s shoulder where his head rest, but the conscious boy only had eyes for the wound spread across the narrow chest as he carried the stranger back to the village.

The way back along the path had never seemed more long or arduously steep now that the chief's son held living cargo, but he pressed on, running as fast as possible without jostling the stranger in his arms or the wound that he carried. As the village came into view, Roman finally realized what he must look like. On his retuning journey, he had quickly become smeared with blood and soaked by the remaining seawater present on the boy’s body and clothing. The village, on the other hand, was calm and nearly festival-ready, stone-hewn huts cleaned with new thatched roofs made from the dying summer grasses in preparation for winter, cooking fires still roaring under the pressure of making enough food for the entire tribe along with any other tribes that decided to make a visit. The village would be disturbed and put into a panic if Roman ran through with a bloodied stranger in his arms, he thought to himself, tone sounding suspiciously like his father’s.

After his moment of hesitation, Roman took a detour around the main square of the village, weaving through the cobblestone and dirt road alleyways, avoiding and sounds of people he heard along the way. Eventually, he reached the path leading to the chiefs’ house and hesitated again.

In his mind, he could hear his father’s anger again along, with his dad’s worry, at the image of him returning disheveled and bloodied with a stranger in tow. This time, though, Roman took a deep breath and stepped forward. This wasn’t about him anymore, he could take Logan and Patton’s worry or irritation if it meant the boy in his arms would live.

Patton addressed him without looking up, recognizing the footsteps. “Hey Roman, your father went out to help with the festival. I don’t think he’s angry-”

Mid-sentence, the man looked up at his son and immediately choked on his words. Roman half-smiled guiltily. 

Patton didn’t recognize the boy that his son was holding and was startled by the drying blood spotted and smeared across the both of them. In the years following his marriage with Logan and their joined rise to power in the tribe, Patton had become something akin to the village healer. On instinct, his good eye scanned the two boys while he rushed forward, holding up part of the stranger’s weight as he began to interrogate his son. 

“Are you okay? What happened? Oh gosh, this looks not-so-good…” Roman sagged for a second, allowing his dad to take the boy into his arms entirely. Patton held him close, turning away to place his body onto a mat on the floor. “Roman, come on kiddo, I need to know what happened.”

“I-I found him on the beach. He couldn’t have been there for very long, though, he was in the water and hadn’t drowned.”

Patton muttered to himself for a second, cooing a bit at the unconscious boy when he saw the injury on his chest. “You’re very brave for saving him, Roman, I’m happy that you brought him here. Can you go grab Lo for me, kiddo?”

Roman froze, who knew how his father would react to this? The fidgety man could barely stand it when his son came home from his latest adventure covered in dirt and occasional blood, much less an injured stranger laid out on the recently cleaned floor of their house. Patton noticed his hesitation and fixed his son with a warm expression

“Hey, it’s okay Roman, I’ll handle him if he throws a fit. I just need his help with this, alright?” His dad turned back to the body, peeling back the soaked, torn shirt from the boy’s injuries. Despite his attempt to calm down his son, worry crept back into the corners of his eyes. The bleeding was slow, trails of blood tracing sluggishly down to the floor, but Patton could already see bruises forming in a straight line going from his right shoulder to his navel. The injury couldn’t be accidental. By then, Roman had slipped off in search of his father. Patton huffed softly. His husband and their son didn't always get along the way that he wanted them too, but it was painfully obvious how much they loved each other anyways. If not for both of their stubbornness, Patton thought, neither of them would have had to been so upset today. 

He shook away from his thoughts and smiled softly down at the strange boy bleeding on the floor of him home. Even if he couldn't keep his family happy all the time, at least he could do this right. Patton gently pulled the boy into his arms like his son had and stood smoothly, thanking his history of farm work for his residual strength, walking slowly over to the spare bed in the room. Logan and Roman returned as he lowered the stranger down and, leaving Roman to hang back and watch nervously, Logan rushed forward to assist his husband.

For Roman, the next hour seemed to pass in a blur of motion as he stood quietly in the background. Distantly, he could see his fathers tending to the boy, bandaging his chest and shifting him around to check for more injuries. As his body dried, the more skinny and pale the stranger seemed. Deep red and purple brises had formed around the wound spanning his abdomen and his hair and dried flat, still crusted with salt from the roaring waves Roman had found him in. Across his face and down his arms and shoulders, the boy had reddish birthmarks in blotches and spots. They covered the sides of his face in an almost charming way, giving his otherwise pretty face an air of mystery and character.

Logan stepped in front of his son, breaking his line of sight to the unconscious stranger. His hand was tapping lightly, rhythmically, on his chest like it usually did when the man was stressed. Roman winced slightly, apologizing to his father inwardly for causing his distress. “W-wher-where did y-you find him?” Logan did his best to mask the stutter, his voice losing none of the authority despite the flaws in the words themselves. Roman drew himself up from his slouch to match his height with the man in front of him. Logan averted his eyes in response.

“He was in the water at the cove, I had to save him before he drowned.”

“Do you kn-know how-w he got h-hi-his injuries?’

“They were there when I saw him, and there was no one else on the beach who would have hurt him. He must’ve been attacked but…”

“Are you okay?”

That question threw the boy off. He was expecting more of the same interrogation that he would have to answer with more I-don’t-know’s, so the inquery about his own safety came out of left field. He looked at his father’s face for a second, seeing his eyes flicker over the blood on his arms and clothing frantically and the obvious worry painted across his expression. For the first time in a long time, Logan looked afraid.

“I’m alright, father.” Logan’s face softened minutely, finally looking relieved as he allowed his hand to fall to his side (although it still shook slightly).

“Good. I-I believe that the boy will pull through. The bleeding from the lacerations has halted for the most part. I will check for any infection tomorrow morning. W-would you watch him for tonight? Your dad and I were up late waiting for you already and I don’t want Patton to fall asleep on top of the boy.” Roman nodded, turning his eyes back on to the sleeping stranger.

Patton laid a hand on his son’s shoulder, obviously unused to this softer, quieter version of the usually loud and argumentative Roman. He was so folded into himself that he almost seemed to be shorter than Patton even though Roman was usually a few inches taller. He leaned into the offered hand minutely, accepting only the barest comfort from his dad’s presence. Logan left the room when they were distracted, hands still shaking slightly by his sides as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet to quell his nervousness. Patton followed him out after one last glance at their son, worried beyond belief for his family and the boy laid out, bandaged and bruised, on the floor of their common room. 

Just like that, Roman was left alone with the injured stranger.


	6. Awaken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has some naughty words in it oh nooooooo

Virgil was warm. Actual warmth, he could feel it. He could move, but any shifting of his abdomen sent a flash of aching pain down his front. He decided in his haze to stay still instead.

Within a few minutes of lying still, more of his senses returned to him. He could feel something soft under him, probably a blanket, and heard quiet breathing to his left. There were bandages around his chest that constricted his inhales of the unfamiliar air just enough to be noticeable. As he woke up, panic started to filter into his mind along with the new sensations.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he been healed already by one of the other gods? As his thoughts spun in circles, more questions were added. Where were the cold tiles of the throne room, the soft, dusty smell of the astral plane, the cold air? Where was Don’s enthusiastic comfort or Druantia’s calming aura? What was going on?

His eyes shot open, scrambling to get his arms under himself to push up off of the floor. Instantly, a cry of pain clawed its way out of his throat which was strangled as Virgil tried to keep quiet. Why couldn’t he see? The astral plane never got dark like this! Where had the slight hum of power that he had felt from the day he had woken up as a god gone? Why did he feel mortal? 

“Hey, calm down! Everything’s alright now. Is there anything you need, my prince?”

Virgil flinched. If he weren’t panicking, he would’ve sneered at the false bravado. For the moment, though, he had an audience to his pain and that was, quite simply, unacceptable. He willed himself out of existence , dissipating into black smoke and popping up in the cove- wait.

He was still on the soft blankets.

Being stared at by a human.

Shit.

“Seriously, are you okay? I can get you water or something…”

Virgil looked up wildly, catching the mortal’s eye as he spoke. The other man’s jaw snapped shut almost instantly as they made eye contact. 

Oh.

The little god nearly Stopped breathing altogether as he recognized the face staring back at him. Green eyes and swooping golden hair, broad shoulders and high cheekbones, the chief's son sat next to him wearing a thin mask of bravado and confidence over the confusion he obviously felt. Virgil forced his lungs to obey him, manually slowing down the spasms in his chest and rebuilding at least some semblance of composure. No matter how well the god had studied the face in front of him, the other man did not know him. Besides that, he needed answers and he needed them now.

“Where am I?” His voice was rasping and painful, barely able to get the words out. 

“Well, I found you at the cove and brought you back to my house. My fathers patched you up last night. I couldn't leave a pretty thing like you to bleed, after all.” Roman winced at his own words. He was slipping back into old habits out of nervousness. The stranger sitting across from him had only just woken up, but Roman had been keeping watch the whole night. Every few minutes he had frantically checked the stranger’s breathing and pulse to assure himself that he would pull through the night. There was something so oddly familiar about the other boy that Roman couldn’t shake off. Now that he was awake, the familiarity hit even harder. 

The stranger’s eyes were a clear grey, similar to soft wool. Roman was unaware that eyes could even be that light-colored. His hair was dark and flat from his time in the ocean water, small grains of salt and sand still sparkling among the strands. The birthmarks that Roman had noticed before framed his eyes with blotches stretching from his cheekbones and up into his hairline. What Roman had not noticed before, though, was the simple black cord hanging loosely from the boy’s neck. It was weighed down by a raven’s skull that had small engravings around the eye sockets. Before he could attempt to decipher them, the stranger's fingers wrapped around it protectively. Roman’s eyes snapped back up to meet the stranger’s, flushing slightly in embarrassment at being caught.

Before he could apologize, though, his mouth hung open slightly as he stared into the other’s eyes, captivated.

Like ink stirred into clear water, the averted eyes darkened in swirling loops of dark grey and green. Almost instantly, his eyes had gone from calming heather to deep black. As Roman watched and the other boy curled more into himself, the dark color bled out under his eyes. The birthmarks were smudged and darkened.

Roman reeled back. 

“ **Where am I?** ” In an instant, the boy’s voice had gone deep and echoing, resonating through Roman’s chest and filling him with a fear unlike other, like he was staring death in the face.

In a moment of bravery, or perhaps desperation, Roman spoke up. “You’re a god, aren’t you.”

“ **What gave it away, dipshit? Answer my question.** ”

Roman flinched again. “I found you on the beach...you’re on Earth, I guess. Is that what you’re asking?” 

The stranger was silent, eyes blackening into a void of light that the mortal could barely will himself to look at.

“What’s your name?”

The small god paused, considering his answer for a moment. When he spoke again, the terrifying quality had melted away. “ _Virgil. God of the ocean._ ” Virgil looked up sharply as the boy across from him began to giggle slightly. “ _What are y_ ou laughing about?”

Between fits of laughter, the other responded.“You’re the god of the ocean? _Seriously_? I had to save you from drowning and you’re the god of the _ocean_?”

“At least I’m not some half-wit mortal that stares at people while they sleep. How long were you even sitting there?”

“Well, princess, someone had to make sure that the ocean didn’t come attack its master in the middle of the night. We couldn’t have that, now could we?”

Virgil began to sass back at the insolent mortal, but as he sat up his chest was seized with pain again. His back thumped uncomfortably against the hard floor. No matter how soft the blanket was upon waking, it was still his only protection against the packed dirt floor of the hut. He hissed through his teeth for a moment, lamenting that he wasn’t reborn as the god of healing. If he were anything like his cousin he’d have been up and off of the ground, fully intact. 

If Virgil’s eyes weren’t screwed up with pain, he would’ve seen the thin veneer of bravado fall from the mortal’s face, expression filling with concern instead of bemusement. His hands fluttered for a second over the god’s chest, unsure of how to proceed. Virgil timidly sat back up, slow this time so he didn’t disturb his injuries. His eyes were still squeezed shut until he stopped moving where they cracked open slowly. The deep black present in them had dissipated slightly, returning to white but with dark violet-black irises.

Roman restarted their conversation nervously. “Are...are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

“You could warp me back to the astral plane.” His words were hissed through gritted teeth. Roman winced. “ Who are you, anyways?”

Roman puffed out his chest, putting his air of grace and pride back into place. “I’m Roman! Son of Patton and Logan, the duel chiefs of this tribe.”

“Then you were wrong.”

“What?”

“You called me princess, but you’re the only princess here.”

Roman blinked for a second. “I am a prince, Mr. Doom and Gloom.”

“You sure as hell act like it.”

“I protest-”

“Roman, why are you arguing with our guest?” Logan had snuck up on the two boys in his characteristic silence. Virgil jumped, drawing his legs up to his chest again. During the course of he and the mortal’s - or Roman’s, apparently - conversation, he had relaxed back into his casual state with light grey irises and relaxed posture. His momentary calm was stolen back again with the introduction of the new stranger to the room.

Logan, on the other hand, had gotten over his apparent discomfort with a stranger in the house, or at least was hiding it very well. His hand was tapping slowly against his arm where they were crossed over his chest. Roman had to admit, his serious father was very intimidating on first glance. His tall stature and calm, stern expressions mixed with the two clean scars across his cheeks scared people away regularly. At the moment, Logan was had his eyes focused towards the door frame leading to the garden. His averted eyes apparently calmed Virgil slightly as he wasn’t at the center of the imposing man’s attention. 

“We were just talking, father. Haven’t you heard of friendly banter?”

“Is that what your dad always goes on about?”

Roman laughed slightly at his father’s exasperation, breaking the tension held in the room. Virgil relaxed again incrementally. 

“Regardless of your strange conversationalism, he should be sleeping. Have you not seen the bandages? Although you yourself seem to be ignorant of the state of your own body, you should not force others to disregard their own.” Logan, obviously, was still, as Roman would say, ‘salty’ about Roman’s various injuries and bumps and bruises from some of his more ill-fated adventures. 

“It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt that much anyways.” Virgil’s deep voice interrupted Logan’s tirade. Logan’s eyebrows furrowed impossibly more at the statement.

“That’s highly improbable. You sustained heavy injuries ranging from friction burns from the sand to a massive laceration across the majority of your abdomen. That’s not even mentioning the internal and external bruises that are undoubtedly forming under those bandages that my husband so carefully patched you up with. From observation I can guess that you were hit with an under-sharpened blade around 1 meter long. Am I correct?”

Virgil leaned back, eyes darkening slightly in shock. “...Uh…yes?”

“As I suspected. What is your name? We haven’t been acquainted outside of my son carrying your body into my living room.”

“Virgil.” Roman looked back at him. Virgil’s eyes flashed at him and Roman realized suddenly that he had been trusted with the god’s identity. Roman smiled to himself and was proud inwardly that the strange immortal had at least some level of trust in him.

Logan was not included in their silent exchange. “Very well then, Virgil, I suggest that you get more rest. Any kind of injury or sickness can be cured with enough sleep and the correct care or treatment which we have already provided you with.” Virgil simply nodded at the intimidating man, hiding his face in his hair to conceal his irises going almost fully white as calm washed over him once more. Only small flecks of lavender and light green were left behind to color them. A few light footsteps and Roman’s soft farewell to his father marked Logan’s leave. Virgil was growing more and more drowsy where the newly risen sun warmed his skin. When Roman turned back to look at the small god, he could barely hold back a smile as he watched the brightened eyes flutter closed sleepily.

“It’s okay, I’ll wake you up in a little bit to change your bandages.” Virgil startled at his words, obviously trying to stay awake. Spears of black creeped into his eyes. Roman sighed and softened his voice. “Hey, you’re alright, okay? I’ll keep you safe.”

Virgil knew in the back of his head that he shouldn’t trust the boy speaking to him, but his tired mind couldn’t help but remind him of the hundreds of times he had watched him on the beach, eyes flashing and shoulders sturdy. In his exhaustion he wondered what it would be like to rest against him, how much warmer it would be, but the sum of his thoughts concluded that the chiefs’ son was right. 

Warm hands supported his back, laying him slowly back onto the pile of blankets on the floor. Soft, warm. In that moment, Virgil allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness again, trusting that he would be safe, at least for a few more hours of sleep.


	7. Garden Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoooo boy I haven't updated in a while,, in return I'm posting two chapters today and I'm planning on posting more soon! Sorry for the wait,,

The garden in front of their house was beautiful. Logan spent a hours every few days tending to it, planting new seeds he would buy at the neighboring village. Not much grew happily in the cold Irish weather, but Logan managed. At the moment, however, his eyes were blind to the various vegetables and flowers growing around him, he was too busy pacing and pacing, trying desperately to wrap his mind around the recent predicament his son had gotten himself into.

Mind spinning with questions and answers, hands fidgeting at his sides, feet pacing, pacing pacing.

“Logan?”

Pacing, fidget, think, pace, fidget...

“C’mon, sweetheart, let’s go inside,”

Think, pace…

Gentle hands stopped him, coming to rest on his forearms, grounding.

“I said that’s enough, Lo, it’s alright,”

“How is any of this alright?” His voice shook more than he cared to admit. Logan avoided Patton’s gentle eyes, unwilling to make eye contact.

“Would you have rather had Roman leave that poor boy on the beach? He needs our help right now.”

Logan wished he was still pacing. Things made more sense, made less noise, when he paced and fidgeted, but Patton’s hands kept him still. Instead, he shifted his weight back and forth, desperate to rid himself of nervous energy. Of all the adventures his son had gone on, the only injured person he had ever brought home was _himself_. This was too different, too unpredictable, “We don’t even know his _name_.”

Patton smiled weakly, allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of his husband. Logan let out a small breath, still averting his eyes slightly. “We’ll figure it out, just like we always do!” 

In that split second, Logan heard the voice of a younger Patton, one that held a baby in his arms and hope in his eyes. Logan heard the baby gurgle in his sleep, so different from the bold, deep voice it would become, the same child that brought another home, another body to be cared for. Logan breathed in again, finally bringing himself to meet his husband’s eye. The hope from all those 18 years ago was still there, dimmed by worry and confusion but strong all the same. 

Together they turned and went back into the house, ready to face whatever the little injured stranger would bring with him.


	8. The Goddesses

In the throne room, the relative silence left in the absence of Balor was a blessing that the other gods rarely experienced. Don lounged calmly in her shared throne, waiting for Druantia to return. At the changing of the seasons, the nature goddess could feel the minds of her worshippers in her head like they were her own thoughts. The rituals of mortals helped the gods keep track of the Earth’s goings on. In particular, the end-of-summer and winter’s-closing festivals of the various tribes across Ireland aided don and Druantia care for the wilderness, guiding it in and out of the natural respiration of the Earth Mother.

During their first collaboration with the seasons, they had clashed on nearly every detail of their power trade, neither willing to give up hold on the Earth. As a result, great storms and destruction were brought down on the Celtic people, paying the price for Druantia’s greed and Don’s jealousy.

As the years had gone on, though, both immortals calmed and softened towards each other. Their thrones had merged into one and Ireland knew peace once more. 

Don sighed. As much as she loved her wintery companion, at the end of the warm season she always mourned the beautiful flowers and green leaves she grew out of the vine-like hair she had been given upon her reincarnation. She wistfully drew her fingers through her hair at the thought, mindful of the delicate violets and forget-me-nots that always appeared when Druantia was referenced in her memories. Don smiled. One thing that she did not lament about the changing of the seasons was the time she got to spend with her counterpart.

As if summoned, Druantia’s gentle, slow footsteps faded into the silent room. Her deep voice let out a small laugh akin to the pneumatic drips of cold rain falling on stone, wearing it away over hundreds of years of rhythmic storms. “I told you not to wait up for me, my love.” 

“I couldn’t help it! You should know that by now.”

The laugh came again, louder now that Druantia approached their throne. Don took in her form for a long moment, marveling at the slow-forming frost creeping across her dark skin as the winter approached. As the cold season reached its peak, the ice would cover most of the goddess’s skin and curly hair in skeletal crystals and spiderweb patterns, but for now they were only in tiny star bursts along the peaks of the winter goddess’s cheekbones and shoulders.

“In any case, why aren’t you preparing for the mortals’ festival? There is much to do before the Earth Mother is ready for the season’s change.”

Don pouted and Druantia’s formality. “C’mon baby, we have all the time in the world!” She wiggled her eyebrows at the other goddess as she climbed up onto the throne beside her. Druantia simply rolled her eyes, kissing her warm counterpart firmly upon settling next to her. Don smiled against her, pleased to be reunited with her love after the long day. Neither of them enjoyed watching Balor go after the younger god. Lyrr was the youngest of the gods present in the throne room and the newest to the immortal ranks. When he had arrived after his reincarnation, he was more scared than any of them had anticipated. It had hurt all of the immortals to see one of their own suffer as much as the boy had. 

As Druantia pulled away, she caught wind of Don’s more negative thoughts and tutted gently, pressing a second kiss on the other goddess’s forehead. 

“Darling, I’m sure that Lyrr is fine.”

“But he never looks happy here, do you think he doesn’t like being a god?”

“Did any of us enjoy this when we were reincarnated? I’m fairly sure you remember my reaction.” Don did remember. She shuddered at the thought of the pure horror and fear in Druantia’s eyes when they had opened for the first time. Like many of the other gods, the winter spirit had died in the grip of fear and pain, making her second birth as terrifying and painful as her death. “In any case, it took many of us entire generations to grow comfortable in this life. I’m just lucky that I found you.” 

Don cooed at Druantia’s rare moment of softness, snuggling into her shoulder. The goddess wound her arms around Don’s abdomen, holding her close. 

“Besides, Balor is just being bullheaded, he’ll come around to the boy eventually.”

“But it’s been two years, Druantia! We’re supposed to be a family, but Balor is-”

“What am I exactly, Don? I’m curious.” The sickly sweet voice startled both goddesses from their comfort. Balor was notoriously silent, but he usually couldn’t sneak up on the two of them so easily.

“It’s nothing, brother, I was just worrying about Lyrr.” Don fidgeted as she met her brother’s eye. It was a more harsh yellow than she was used to, probing and uncomfortable. He blinked sharply at her, obviously disbelieving of her excuse.

“Where did you run off to? Aren't you always the stickler for us staying in the throne room?” Druantia shifted Balor’s attention mercifully, allowing Don to collect herself without the war god’s piercing stare.

“I found our troublesome nephew.”

“Where did he go? Is he alright?”

“He’s perfectly fine, Druantia. I simply gave him what he wanted.” 

It was then that the winter goddess fully took in Balor’s appearance. He held his sword lazily in his right hand, a small orb of purple and green energy balanced in the left. It only took her a second to sense the dark and sweeping aura usually associated with their youngest nephew emanating weakly out of the sphere of light. As her eyes grew wider, they took in the golden I her as it gathered at the tip of Balor’s downcast blade and dripping onto a red tiled mosaic at his feet, depicting a god falling to the earth in cased in flame, the gold contrasting gorily with the scarlet glass. Horror overtook her expression. Instantaneously, the throne room dropped to near freezing as she realized what the god had done. In her arms, Don reached the same conclusion.

“Balor, what have you done.” Druantia had never heard her more furious, more scared.

The chilling laugh Balor responded with sent spikes of fear and dread deep into the two goddesses. As one, they dissipated into a flurry of snow and flower petals.

Neither had ever phased to the Earthly realm faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoy cliff hangers :)


	9. Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, final's week kicked my ass. I'll probably post a few chapters soon because I have nothing better to do!

The next time Virgil woke up, it was late in the night. He knew because he couldn't see a goddamn thing. For the second time that day, he cursed the frailty of his mortal body, missing the awareness and strength he possessed as an immortal. Roman was nowhere to be found, a fact that Virgil tried not to be disappointed at. He sat up shakily and dislodged himself from the thick blankets that had been placed around him. finding the strength to stand, the little god walked carefully to the doorway, the only source of light in the room. Virgil was grateful for the strange mortals that had taken him in, of course, but he also had no idea was he was. The door cracked open, letting the god silently out of the house.

The moon was large, creating enough latent glow to give him a dim view of the outside world. Virgil didn't recognize the little village before him, but the coastal scrub grass and clear air were familiar. He sighed; there wasn't any use of knowing where he was if he couldn't leave anyways. The subtle connection to the astral plane that had rested at the back of his mind was severed.

He closed the door to the hut slowly to avoid it creaking, reentering the living space that felt minuscule compared to the massive, cavernous throne room Balor had had him grow accustomed to. The air was subtly aromatic with notes of various herbs and flowers that seemed to welcome him back into the home. 

Outside, two goddesses had alighted on a nearby hill. 

Don was at a loss for words in a few hundred years, dumbstruck by the glimpse of the little god that they had been allowed. 

Druantia, however, had never had more to say.

“How did he get even _smaller_? I don’t understand. Balor shouldn’t be able to do this! We have to go get him and bring him back to the astral plane-”  
“Dru, we can’t bring him back,”

“What?” Druantia rounded on her, her eyes huge and glassy and showing more emotion than they ever did.

“He isn’t immortal anymore.” Don could barely speak. It felt as if all of the breath had been forced out of her body. Together, the two goddesses watched the village in stunned silence. They could both feel the little god’s presence, but it was weak and nowhere near the level of power needed to travel to the astral plane safely. 

The sun rose calmly over the two of them and for the first time since she had become a goddess herself, Druantia prayed.

She prayed for Lyrr’s safety.

She prayed that _Virgil_ would be alright.


	10. Chill

Patton had gotten up early the day after Roman brought the little stranger home, making his way into the main room of the hut just as the sun made itself known over a distant hill. He rekindled the fireplace which still had a few embers glowing from just how late they had had it burning the night before. He and his husband had to stay up late cleaning blood out of bandages and blankets.

They had been mostly silent, Logan being too overwhelmed to do much more than replace and warm up more water as it was bloodied. Patton watched him closely for the few hours they had worked together.

Logan’s demeanor reminded him painfully of the night they had gotten Roman. 

They were young, maybe too young in retrospect, when the baby had been left on their doorstep only a few months after they had gotten married. Patton had never seen Logan’s eyes wider than they were when he held the little thing after bringing it in from the cold. Together they had warmed the baby up and let him sleep in their bed. To Patton’s surprise, his husband named the little boy.

“Just like a little roman soldier. Invading our home, dirtying up the whole place.”

Patton had laughed at that, nearly delirious from lack of sleep and desperate to find hope in a situation so confusing. Logan had given him a little watery smile and they had gone to bed, neither getting much sleep. In the morning, they continued on as normal except for a little more food being made and a child in one of their arms at all times. From then on, Roman continued to dirty things up and further invade Logan’s life, but the man didn’t complain after that, at least not really. Patton watched over the years as Logan brightened, softened, chipped away at the edges with every toothless smile and errant giggle their new son had gifted them with.

For the moment, though, that was all gone. He let the little smile fall from his face. The stranger in their living room reminded him so much of their baby: cold, small, and helpless. Where there was wistfulness, the cross-eyed man was filled with passion. Like hell was he going to let another child suffer like Roman had. They could do this, he was sure. Across the small room, He could just see the blankets laid out on the floor, hopefully keeping the little stranger warm. Patton quickly finished putting the cleaned bandages away, eager to check on him. If he was awake, he might be able to tell them what had happened to him, or at the very least his name. Patton hated thinking of people as strangers, after all. His makeshift chores completed, he crossed the room towards the doorway.

Upon entering the living room, Patton felt cold dread wash through him as the cold air washed over him. The front door was open, the blankets were empty, and, presumably, the injured stranger had gone missing. In an instant, he was out the door, desperate to find the boy, painfully aware of the near-winter chill. 

…

Admittedly, going to sit outside while recently being beaten up by an actual god was bad planning on Virgil’s part, but to his defense, he hadn’t been mortal in quite a long time. In a daze, he watched the stars fade into a sunrise, resting his back against the rough stone wall encircling the mortal family’s garden. The wild grass was dead or dying under his hands, but he was comfortable. He had missed this, he realized distantly. The wind brushed gently through his hair, refreshingly cold in comparison to the musty, damp chill of the astral plane. 

This couldn’t be too bad, he guessed. It wasn’t like he had been a god forever, even though his mortal life was a dim and painful memory. Every sensation was sharpened by the pain across his chest as well, but he fought to ignore it as he fought off sleep.

Outside his headspace, he registered footsteps approaching. His eyes weren’t obeying him, however, so he could only open them very slowly. A pair of eyes met his own, one of them crossed slightly as if the left wanted to study the nose separating it from its twin more closely. The eyes crinkled at the edges a bit as the face smiled and Virgil realized the face in front of him was speaking. This was bad, he thought, as a low buzzing noise drowned out the words spoken to him. The man talking to him let a little bit of panic bleed into his expression at his lack of response. 

“-iddo, we need to get you ...ide, it’s not- ….t here. You’re probably getting cold, right?”

He nodded as a few of the words bled through. He _was_ cold, how had he not felt it before?

Without warning, his balance shifted sideways, throwing him off center. An involuntary noise escaped from his chest as his rib cage protested the movement, aching in the early morning chill. Whatever was holding him was warm,. Though, so he didn’t fight it. Instead, he fell even deeper into the sleepy haze all around him, trying to escape from the pain.

…

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! I found him outside. Oh gosh, he looked so cold! I wonder how long he was out there…”

“We should have kept a closer eye on him. What if he had run away? He could have died of exposure or blood loss…”

“That’s not the problem right now, darling, we have to get him warm.”

Roman could barely keep himself from running into the living room upon hearing his fathers’ hushed, frantic conversation. He stumbled into the room to see His dad holding Virgil close to his chest just like he had only 24 hours beforehand. The little god was shivering and shaking as they laid him back down to the blankets on the floor.

“Roman, could you get some water boiling, please? Our guest needs some extra warmth. I’ll come in a second to help make some food, alright?” Patton smiled softly at his son, a few notes of worry sneaking into the curve of his smile. Roman stared at the scene before him for a second before nodding stiffly. 

Numbly, Roman collected water into a pot from the well just outside the kitchen door and put it over the fireplace. When Patton entered the room a few minutes later, he was still sitting on front of the fire, watching the water carefully.

“You have some explaining to do, Ro.”

Roman turned, unsure of the tone in Patton’s voice. “What do you mean?”

Patton turned away, quietly getting out a few vegetables from the previous harvest and chopping them fine enough with his knife to be used in soup. It was what he did when he was thinking of what to say, so Roman waited.

“Dad?”

“That boy had black eyes. When I found him outside he looked up at me and his eyes…” he paused in his chopping, taking a moment to breathe before continuing. “They were completely black. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Roman kept silent.

“And then, when I picked him up to get him inside, they shifted. They went grey and then white before he fell asleep.”

The silence continued.

“He’s just a kid like you, but those eyes…” Patton turned towards his son, leaning on the counter and leveling him with the most fatherly look Roman had ever seen. “You know that I love you and I wouldn’t get angry at you for no reason. Do you know anything else about that boy that could help me understand?”

He almost let the truth fall from him, eager for the comfort of full disclosure, but Roman dutifully kept his mouth shut. Those pleading eyes, begging for an immortal secret to be kept. Virgil had shared his secret with Roman, if unwillingly, and he was determined to keep the boy safe.

Even if it meant lying to the kind, familiar eyes before him as Roman braved looking up.

“I just found him lying on the beach. I don’t know anything about him, I promise.” The lie burned at his throat. It had to be done, he assured himself.

Patton turned back around to finish chopping vegetables, but not before Roman saw his face fill with a sadness that chilled him.

It had to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd update more often and I lied through my teeth. The long and the short of my problems are ****SPOILER WARNING*** that I'm finding it hard to write a certain snakey character as a villain and I'm really wanting to write him as a protagonist so some of the plot might be going in a new, unplanned direction. With that settled, I'm hoping to write a bit more of this a bit faster bc I really love this story! Comments and kudos give me fuel, I appreciate you all immensely. See you in a little while!


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